


Whatever You Want

by leiascully



Series: Drive [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-22
Updated: 2007-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something to take the edge off, she thinks, and lets her clean hands slide down her body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Want

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How You Like It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/994) by [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu). 



> Timeline: indeterminate S3  
> A/N: [**sabinelagrande**](http://sabinelagrande.livejournal.com/) challenged me to write a solo piece. Zulu volunteered to bookend and wrote [How You Like It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/994) from House's perspective. Here's Cuddy, all by herself. I suggest Melissa Ferrick's "Drive" ([lyrics](http://www.lyricsondemand.com/m/melissaferricklyrics/drivelyrics.html)) as the soundtrack if you can find it, as it's where the inspiration for the title came from and it's one hot song.  
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

It's been a long day.

She comes home late and surly, half tempted to drop her light jacket in a heap on the floor instead of hanging it up properly. But she goes to the closet and puts it on the hanger and fusses with the sleeves until they're straight, because she's not a child and she won't be goaded by House into acting like one. He's got a patient, and every five minutes her cell phone buzzes against her hipbone (or at least that's how it seems). She had another blind date at lunch, early to try to circumvent House's meddling (hoping he was distracted), but of course, there he was, bending over her at the table (and it didn't help that he dwarfed her date - hell, she almost dwarfed her date). She's afraid her polite grimace when House began whispering in her ear, meant to convey her apologetic disgust at this insane employee of hers interrupting their liaison, came out more as some kind of twisted arousal. So there's another foray into romance down the tubes and another lonely night (not that she would have slept with the guy anyway), which will no doubt be interrupted by House, wanting to know some factoid he could have easily looked up, refusing to say that what he really wants is her.

She's tired of it.

The muscles in her back feel like overwound springs. She drops her skirt on the floor in a satisfying crumple (it needs to go to the cleaners anyway), unbuttons her blouse, rolls off her hose and panties, undoes her bra, and leaves a trail of discarded clothing across the floor. She turns the shower on as hot as it will go and twists her hair into a loose knot before stepping in. She needs something to take the edge off and she hasn't got the patience for a bath. It's a sad life when she hasn't got the energy to relax, but it's House's fault. All of it, all of it, except for the parts that are her fault, which is to say, at least half.

Enough thinking, she thinks, and turns broadside to the spray. She finds her most decadent bath gel and pours it into her cupped palm. Her soap-slick, fragrant hands slide over her body as the water pounds down, and she's glad she spent the extra money for the really good showerhead. The spray slaps against her tight muscles with just the right amount of force as she turns her back to it, arching against the sting. Her thumbs dig into the long muscles in her back and she bites her lip against the tension. This would be easier with someone else, but she hasn't got the time or the energy to find someone else, so once again, her comforts are her own responsibility. She lets her fingers knead her hamstrings as her palms slide over her thighs and balances on one foot to soap her calf. Her skin is smooth and she's glad she went in for that wax yesterday. At least one thing's going right in her day.

She washes her face, massaging in little circles over her cheekbones, sighing a little. The water sluices over her face, and the heat fogs the enclosed space, steam turning into mist turning into tiny droplets on the damp curls that fall over her forehead. Something to take the edge off, she thinks, and lets her clean hands slide down her body. She flicks at her nipple with a thumb, finds the spaces between her ribs with her fingertips, and runs her palm over the flat of her hip before sliding her hands between her thighs. Her waterlogged fingers skid over the familiar places. She lets her fingers play over her folds as the other hand slides up and down her thigh and hip. The achy shiver begins in her toes as she circles her clit, and she takes the other hand from her thigh and pushes two fingers into herself. It feels good: no variety or novelty in it, but it feels good. Not good enough, quite. She arches her back and presses her shoulders into the tile, twisting her wrist to push in further. The water slaps across her stomach and her breasts, teasing her taut nipples. Her cheek rests against the back wall. The tile is cold and the grout is going to leave a line across her cheekbone, but she doesn't care just now as she makes frantic circles with her thumb and reaches for the orgasm that lingers out of reach.

It's not working. She cramps her wrist trying to push that extra millimeter and rubs faster and faster across just the right spot, but it isn't coming, or she isn't coming, however it goes. She slumps against the chilly wall (no wonder she can't find anyone else to do this if she can't get it accomplished herself) and twists off the water with slick fingers. She drags her towel from the hook and roughly rubs herself dry, frustrated in all sorts of ways. Toys. Toys are what she needs. Fortunately, she's got a good selection of those. The towel gets discarded (over the rack, since she's not cranky enough to want to deal with mildewy terrycloth later) in favor of something made of slippy cotton and lace. She likes the feel of the fabric stretched across her thighs and the way the lace is just scratchy enough on her breasts. Perfect.

The drawer rattles as she pulls it out, the assortment of plastic and rubber gadgets knocking against each other. There are a couple of bottles of lube in there too, and some condoms, a big pack of batteries and some sanitary wipes. She lingers over the selection: dildos and vibrators of assorted sizes and shapes. She's lazy tonight, aching for fulfillment but not necessarily penetration. House will be by at some point - she knows it as surely as she knows anything - but the amount of time she has before then is uncertain. Maybe half an hour, maybe half the night. Mutinously, she chooses one of the less powerful toys. It'll take longer, but she likes the long ones, when the orgasms feel like they're being dragged up from the tips of her toes, the long wait for the clutch of muscles. So what if he comes in and finds her? She's got a right to do whatever she likes in her own home.

She slots fresh batteries into the slender vibrator and stretches out on the bed sideways just for kicks, flexing her calves deliberately. Her hands wander over her body and she flicks the vibrator on, the barely-there lowest setting. She smooths the cotton over her stomach, coaxes her nipples back into alertness with the little plastic wand. The shiver is back and it makes the arches of her feet tickle. She hums in satisfaction. It's going to be a good night after all.

The tip of the vibrator rumples her slip as she moves it down her body. She hitches up one knee, pushing aside the cotton, touches the toy to her clit and sighs with pleasure. Fuck House, fuck her awful date in a series of awful dates, fuck them all. Especially fuck House. She doesn't need him. The curve of her wrist draws the fabric just right across her thighs. It's not the same cramping reach as it was in the shower, despite the bite of lace across her tendons. It's easy now to rub her fingertips around her entrance, teasing herself, spreading her slickness along her cleft. She presses vibrator into her clit and her hips lift against it. She hums again in the back of her throat, almost a growl. Her hair is coming loose as she arches her neck, trying to find the perfect position. What would House say if he could see her now? She laughs, half-panting, her throat tight as the first flutter of pleasure ripples through her. She can do better than one little spasm. She nudges the vibrator up a notch and whimpers involuntarily.

Suddenly she wants to House to see her like this, her knees wide and her thighs tense and that flush spreading up her throat. She wants him to come in with his quiet sneakers and the thump of his cane, and she wants him to drop onto her bed with his file and take the toy from her as she clutches at her thighs. She wants him to read out the file and hand her the relevant pages and charts as she flicks at her clit with one hand and he fucks her slowly with the vibrator. He would taunt her with it, keep her on an edge where she could still read the file. It's a good case, convoluted but workable. She can see the light at the end of the tunnel, or at least knows that he can. His team have been running tests all day; he'll have come up with enough pieces to put it together by the morning. She wants him to need her help, wants to see that sudden stillness come over his face, like the moment before orgasm. She wants him to see that look on her face with his fingers between her legs.

Her back arches, a tight curve of muscle. Her eyes are closed, but the fantasy unspools behind her eyelids. She thrusts with her fingers to feel the clutch of her muscles. She imagines his eyes as he watches her come, sitting on the edge of her bed, his weight making it easier to roll her hips at just the right angle. She imagines the impatient noise he makes in the back of his throat and the rattle of his buckle as he undoes his jeans. He would find the butterfly vibrator in her drawer and push the straps up her legs until the thing was settled just right against her clit, and then he'd snap the elastic against her skin and grin as he loomed over her. The vibrator slides hard against her clit as she thinks of the roughness of his thighs against hers, the way he would push the slip further up, the buttons of his shirt against her breastbone because he just can't wait, the hard hot slickness of him as he thrusts into her. Her fingers are a sad substitute; she pushes in a third, yearning, and thinks of the edges of his teeth nipping at her collarbone, the rasp of his stubble over her breasts. _Kiss me_, she demands in her mind, and he does, his hand sliding up the back of her thigh, pushing her knee up, as he supports himself with his other arm. She can almost feel his weight splaying her thighs and the beginning of soreness in her hips and cunt. She pushes harder, wanting the pressure of him inside her, and the wave breaks. She is sweat-damp, her fingers slick and aching, the hot buzz of the vibrator burning through her pelvis. House would fuck her through it through the gasps and the sharp yelp, urging her on with his own moans, finding that place inside her so that she's still gasping when he grunts and bites down on her shoulder, too close to her neck so that she'll have to wear concealing tops for a week, and she swears quietly and holds the back of his head.

Her toes are curled so hard that her calves are cramping. She draws her fingers out with a shudder, dropping the vibrator so that it lies still buzzing between her thighs. She laughs softly. It's a nice fantasy, House needing her. House wanting her. House healthy and hearty enough to fuck her through the mattress. She licks her lips, grinning, and shifts a little. The vibrator slips into just the right exquisitely oversensitive spot and her back arches again, so quickly that her head snaps back.

House is standing there, and his eyes are dark and hungry.


End file.
